


A Wretched Wheel of Fortune

by nigellecter



Category: Charlie Countryman (2013)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-28
Updated: 2016-03-28
Packaged: 2018-05-29 16:20:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6383695
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nigellecter/pseuds/nigellecter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Continuation of 'Be My Darling'<br/>Nigel and Gabriella Lecter-Ibanescu rules the Bucharest Club Scene with an iron fist, working as a power couple. Into their second year of marriage and tumultuous turns of events that will change their lives around, Nigel comes across a frightening surprise that will forever mar his experience as a violent criminal.<br/>Unbeta'ed, mistakes are my own.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Wretched Wheel of Fortune

**Author's Note:**

  * For [YouDroppedYourForgiveness](https://archiveofourown.org/users/YouDroppedYourForgiveness/gifts).



The blinding light of low and high beam lit the pavement as the streamlined and sporty Ducati Multistrada 1200 made a smooth turn along the sharp curve of the shoreline, Nigel’s leather-clad frame turning along with the bike as the fat tire of the back wheel presses firmly along with the asphalt, still warm from the scorching sun earlier. With the flapping dark brown leather jacket that had faded and stretched along with his body shape, contouring his toned body like a second layer of skin, he feels Gabi’s emancipated arms constrict onto him in a tight coil. Gabi’s relatively petite frame pressed firmly against his broad back.  _ Was she really this flimsy and weak like a fucking twig? _ All the strength she had bore for him dissipated into the thin air. Her lithe body swaying like reeds by the riverbank. Flaming red hair whipping across her alabaster face with her characteristic jet-black kohl eyeliner, encasing the sunken eyelids. The lush sheen from well-worn leather presses against Gabi’s cheeks, which are both cool from the wind and sweltering from Nigel’s heat, radiating off from the garment.  

 

After Gabi had almost overdosed and met her untimely demise with endless amount of coke, crystallized granules dusted fine under Nigel’s expertise grinding, Nigel had decisively declared that he would quit the drug cold turkey, the substance that had been accompanied him since drifting to Bucharest in his teen years. He could still vividly picture her lifeless form, lying and staring at him akin to his own one. innumerable times of clinging onto the desperate hold of the ephemeral ecstasy. Haunting and mocking him.  _ This is what you have turned your darling Gabi into _ . A formidable temptress, a femme fatale, gun toting and ruling the associates with flick of her fingers. Nigel and Gabriela Lecter-Ibanescu. The power couple of the bucharest who had it all. Slaves to the hurtling ephemeral high of the substance. Sloshed sex, slithering against her collarbone, bottom lip, down between her inner thigh. Pushed right into the event horizon where no matter escapes its funnelled black hole, to the point of no return as they hurtle among the scattered glimmering stars. 

 

Rendered broken and decimated by angel dust. The unmistakable nosebleed tainting her pallid skin, more white and sickly than the phantom aura, ominously surrounding her. Gnarled veins, haunting him through the flutter of pulses as every teardrop surges and brims over the surface, a tremor licks all over his skin and turns each and every mark into goosebumps as eyelids squeeze tightly shut. Every subtle hitch amplifies in waves, knocking the ebb and flow of his pulsating heartbeat as he drowns in successive surge of tears, turning into a unstoppable deluge. Pursed lips ripple along with hitching breaths, between aligning vocal cords as fingers curl over her neck, eyes widened with a clinging joy as he makes out a weak, fluttering pulse of an injured bird. It had been a devastating wake-up call, an incapacitating blow to his gut, an irreparable one as streams of tears are shed by him.

 

So instead of coveting for the temporal high, with recuperated Gabi adhered to his back like a sinking quagmire never letting go of the hold. He rides and rides until his muscular and toned legs are quivering with exertion. The penumbra of the last trail of of cloud upon his broad back, the golden orange hues pour onto the horizon akin to a Mark Rothko painting, enigmatic and ethereal, otherworldly as the glowing embers transcends the moment. His thighs almost gliding across the road as it straightens itself once again, the shiny chrome plated body reflects Nigel’s facade. His mane pushed inside the helmet, his hazel orbs intense and dilated, slightly bloodshot and his face a bit gaunt. 

 

Nigel Lecter, an embodiment of all things notorious, a drug lord, violent and volatile as his name carried a branding of scarlet letters. With Gabi’s assistance and guidance, the establishment had been soaring with the profit and his ruthless antics. A half-crushed cigarette pack, a lighter, a crumpled note and sunglasses inside one pocket, along with his pocket knife and gold-gilded and engraved handgun tucked inside his leather-like jeans, an unreadable expression takes over his face. As the vibration of the roaring engine underneath him reverberates through his tremoring body, he tries his best to swallow a dry lump inside his throat. The familiar beach coming into focus, he reminiscences the exact spot, guided by only the the North Star sparkling in the night sky above him. 

 

There had been the days when he couldn’t set a foot on the sweltering reverberation of the engine, enrapturing and enticing him to join the fate of one of his romantic interest, the first one to be exact. The one who had ravenously devoured his heart until he had no juice left in him. The mere thought of it makes the back of his eyeballs water up as soulful hazel grow more diaphanous. More so than the regret, lips longingly stretch over his sunken cheek, making the pronounced cheekbones protrude against his coppery skin, aglow with the ray of sinking light.

 

A strikingly aggressive looking front as pulls up next to the abandoned building, an old sun-bleached sign above his head revealing its former life as a thriving bistro. The murky ocean water near the horizon glimmers with moonlight as the tide laps the shore. A long sigh lifts his chest as the ignition turns off. His threadbare shirt damp with wide splotches of sweat across his broad back, the helmet comes off with a soft slide. A coat of sweat sticks his hair to his cheeks,  making it difficult to get the shirt off, the scruff adorning all the way from his sideburns down to his adam’s apple. Gabi’s hand runs over the silvery scruff, curving to comb his ashen blonde hair back his ears as she feels the angular and defined jawline of her husband’s. Wistfully gazing at the wall beside him, his calloused fingers against the rough bricks as he envelopes Gabi with his weight, a hand brushes under her skirt as he feels the tight net of the lace stockings. 

 

~~

 

This had all been a dream. An endeavor he would never able to strive to achieve ever again. The flamboyant and vivid recollections of colors, sensations, the aura that surrounds them and the blurring view turning abstract and expressive stroke under myriads of streetlights and suburban celestial bodies, glimmering like strewn confetti in the vastness of the pitch-black. 

 

_ Another dream, more haunting than ever, envelopes him in a sinister cloud of depression. _

 

_ ~~ _

 

Nigel’s face beams with excitement as his slender fingers caress his newest purchase in his head. The weather had been perfect, allowing him to relish every opportunity to hone his maneuvering skills. The navy, glimmering with deep jet black highlighted chrome body wiped clean of dried dust and water spots as he prepared, for the business trip a few hours away from Bucharest. Storming inside with the dirty bucketful of water with sponge floating inside, his sweat drenched shirt painted with continuous drips of vertical lines, along with big splotches of sweat wetting his back along the dimple.  

 

Glancing over the window by their queen-sized bed, the blinding afternoon light hits directly across his brows and Nigel squints, covering his face with a hand. A familiar scent permeates the small, their fifth floor walkup flat surrounds with the meal which tied them together in an eloquent, unspoken agreement. Exchange of smoldering gazes, the pools burning with equally intense blazing embers. Spark exchanged until his veins became roaring thunderstorms, palpitating against his ribcage.  

 

Gabi’s hand moves to ladle copious amounts of soup into a seal-tight container, Nigel’s favorite Romanian meatball soup. The recipe, courtesy of the owner of the cafe downstairs, their long time friend by now. “Should I pack you more than one container? I know how much you love the soup.” 

 

Watching the sun suck into the horizon a distance away and with his cell phone pressed close against one side of his face, the corner of his lips upturn as hazel pool transfixes along the horizon, watching the dissipation of colors scatter all across the rooftops. The contours of golden orange seeping through the washed out and bleak gray of the cemented walls and Nigel’s usual husky and low voice, full of profanities and exchange of quarrel-like tones fling across the speaker of the phone before he hangs up. Gabi doesn’t even make a face, as she had been already used to their display of what they consider it to be ‘masculine.’ “Just one’s good, darling, but make it a big serving,” A grin tilting his lips in a lopsided manner, he feigns a simper into the speaker before hanging up with another bout of profanities, barking at Darko in a good banter.  

Having already downed a bottle of beer, with a slightly flushed face, a sweat trickles down his temple as ashen locks drape over his hazel eyes. Shoving the cell inside the left pocket as a hand thrusts inside one of the front pockets on his leather jacket, stretched with frequent use and time, he continues to pack his duffel bag with a lit cigarette dangling from his thinly pressed lips; a few days’ worth of clothes, two revolvers with chambers full of .43 caliber bullets, a silencer along with a backup glock and few cartilages. 

 

The new motorcycle easily hummed, roared and revved underneath him, and the rush of wind warm against the scorching heat of the damp humid Romanian summer feels cool against his exposed skin. His toned and unblemished skin becoming more sun-kissed as the journey towards the destination continues, he had been wanting to find a hidden location where he could be secluded for a change before attending the business meeting secured months before it finally took its shape along with Darko.

 

The soft sand, the painted sky radiating with hazy orange glow of the setting sun that glimmer and sparkle with innumerable stars scattered across the vast canvas, enjoying the warm food packed in a wicker picnic basket as he rests, along with the blanket to be warmly tucked into, spending the night there to empty his clogged up mind. After packing the containers and utensils, the trip to the beach is short, finally able to pick up speed as Nigel’s intense hazel orbs widen on the road, the low and high beam casts a blinding ray as the bike maneuvers freely, swerving on the curved road. In his most comfortable element, Nigel’s lips draw a gentle arch, completely immersed and fixated on the horizon, just like in his reverie before had drawn up a picturesque scenery, the setting sun pours warm tones across the sky and the ocean water, darkness reflecting the orange and golden glows as the gentle breeze ripples the surface. The moonlight adding to the ethereal feel of the atmosphere. The bike slowing down against the side of the bistro, about to close for the day as few people makes their exit. The bistro’s neon sign turns off and Nigel’s long and slender legs swing off the bike. The picnic basket secured in the compartment, along with all the necessities. 

**Author's Note:**

> Dedicated to @gabriella-ibenescu. Uploads will be excruciatingly slow. This took me eon to write, I don't know why but with fanfic, it's definitely harder to get those two characters' characterization right.   
> I'm sure I will rework this when I have more substantial time <3


End file.
